Word Count: 1950 words

"Some doors are meant to stay locked."

Lysandra moved through the library, her fingers tracing the spines of books as she walked. In her other hand, she held a map – old parchment, frayed edges, symbols scrawled in ink that had faded over centuries. Somewhere in this library, hidden beneath layers of dust and forgotten knowledge, was a passage that led outside the palace walls.

A way out.

And she is was searching for that.

The chandeliers flickered above her.

She froze.

The air had shifted – changed, turned a bit colder – a shift too subtle to name but impossible to ignore.

Her grip tightened on the map.

A prickle ran down her spine as if unseen eyes were watching, their gaze crawling over her skin.

It's just my nerves.

She forced herself forward, scanning the towering shelves for any markings that aligned with the map’s symbols. The only sound was the faint rustle of her gown as she brushed past the books,

Until it wasn’t.

A book fell.

Not slid. Not tumbled. It fell.

As if someone, something, had pushed it.

Lysandra turned sharply.

The book lay open, its pages fanned out like broken wings. The words swam in the dim candlelight, but the title was clear:

The Cursed Kings of Lemus.

A chill crawled up her spine.

Then,
A breath. Right behind her.

Lysandra spun. Nothing.

Shit! Don't show fear.

A hand landed on her shoulder.

She sucked in a sharp breath, body tensing as she turned around,

Daniel.

He raised an eyebrow, steady, unaffected. "Why aren't you sleeping?"

She exhaled, pressing the map to her chest. "Midnight cravings."

He smirked. "For books?"

"Yes," she said, tilting her head. "Should I be craving you instead?"

Daniel’s smirk faltered slightly. His gaze judging.

"That was the shittiest thing I heard in a while, princess."

She might have fought him on that, but something shifted in the shadows behind him. Her gaze flickered to a portrait on the wall-an oil painting of King Arthur of Lemus. He was the last ruler to rule the whole planet for more than 20 years but then he mysteriously died.

Her breath caught.

The man in the painting, he looked exactly like Daniel.

Same sharp jawline. Same piercing gaze. Same air of barely restrained violence.

"You aren't his reincarnation, are you?" she whispered.

Daniel's hold on her tightened slightly. "What? No."

"Because," she continued, voice light but her stomach sinking, "legend says he reincarnates over and over... and each time he does, he brings disaster."

Daniel exhaled sharply, like he was trying to smother amusement. "Then I guess we'll find out soon, won't we?"

Before she could press further, movement flickered in her peripheral vision.

A figure stood in the farthest corner of the library. Not moving. Just... watching.

The moment stretched, suffocating and cold.

The figure lurched forward.

The temperature dropped. The chandeliers groaned, their chains creaking. The candles flickered violently, stretching toward the ceiling as if something unseen was pulling at them.

The darkness between the shelves wasn't empty.

It was watching. Waiting.

The presence that coiled in the corners of the room wasn't some aimless specter.

It was curious.

It wasn't trying to frighten them-it was trying to see them. To remember them.

A flicker of awareness rippled through the air. And then-

A hand.

Pale. Withered. Reaching.

It slipped out from between the bookshelves, fingers curling, grasping for them.

Lysandra’s breath caught.

Daniel saw it too.

But neither of them reacted.

They didn't run. Didn't scream. They simply turned and walked-slow, deliberate.

The entity fed on fear. They wouldn't give it that satisfaction.

Lysandra took a step. Her legs locked.

Move.

She couldn't.

Something unseen clutched her ankles.

Before she could panic, Daniel scooped her up, cradling her against his chest as if she weighed nothing.

The moment Daniel's arms wrapped around her, something clicked.

Not in her mind. Not in her body.

In her magic.

Her Dirhem, silent for as long as she could remember, stirred. Not with words. Not with resistance. But with recognition.

Warmth unfurled from her ribs, an aching, seamless feeling, like a missing note in a song finally being played.

Daniel inhaled sharply.

Not at her. Not at the fear pressing against their skin. But at his own Dirhem, which had just shifted, just bowed.

Lysandra felt it, reverence. Not submission. Not possession. But something deeper, waiting.

The way his Dirhem brushed against hers wasn't battle or domination.

It was belonging.

"Seriously?" she muttered, arms looped around his neck.

"Walk faster next time."

She should have been embarrassed.

Should have snapped at him, should have shoved him away the moment they were safe.

But for the first time that night, for the first time in days, she didn't feel like she was running alone.

His arms around her weren't a prison. They were grounding. Safe. Right.

Her Dirhem curled tighter inside her chest, humming in quiet agreement.

Because, It wasn’t just him holding her.

It was his Dirhem.

And hers? Hers reacted.

Her Dirhem had always been dead. It had never expressed itself. But now?

Now, it fused with his as of the two magic were sharing a hug. The warmth was making her feel lightheaded.

And his?

It had bowed not literally. But she felt the reverence in his magic towards her.

Could it be his feelings that his Dirhem is expressing?

It should have rejected her, should have fought back. Instead, it let her in.

But then, 
why is hers accepting it so warmly?

Daniel inhaled sharply.

Lysandra’s pulse thundered. “Daniel—”

"Not now." His voice was too calm. Too careful.

Because he had felt it too.

Then, the bookshelves slammed shut.

Every exit. Every path.

The library wanted them to stay.

The books whispered. Pages fluttered open, voices bleeding from their spines, chanting words she didn’t understand.

Lysandra’s breath hitched. “Daniel—”

"Close your eyes."

The urgency in his voice wasn’t human.

Her breath shuddered, but she obeyed.

Then, heat.

Not fire. Not Dirhal.

Just Daniel.

His Dirhem pushed against the dark.

The whispering books hissed. The shelves groaned. The shadows recoiled.

And then, the doors burst open.

Daniel carried her through, and the moment they crossed the threshold,

Silence.

The temperature snapped back to normal. The chandeliers stilled. The books were silenced.

The library had gone back to sleep.

What exactly did he do? Walk out?

Her mind was puzzled, the ghost didn't try to hold him but they did that to her.

Why?

Outside, Daniel set her down.

Too fast.

Like her touch burned him.

Lysandra steadied herself, exhaling shakily. She had questions.

But currently, the hallway was dark.  Abd after what happened, she needs lights. 

"Light the flames," Lysandra muttered,

Daniel gave her a dry look. "Light them yourself."

She exhaled sharply. "Magic suppressants, remember? Your fault, by the way."

He smirked. "Should've thought of that before you tried to stab me."

She glared. "If I had succeeded, I wouldn't be here, and I wouldn't be with you."

He sighed, rolling his eyes.

She expected him to snap his fingers, to conjure a neat, controlled flame like any trained magician would.

Instead?

He didn’t move.

"Daniel."

A long pause.

Then, "I can’t."

The words hit harder than they should have.

Her stomach dropped. "You mean you won’t."

His jaw locked.

Realization crept up her spine.

"You don’t know how!"

His Dirhem was too much. Too wild. He didn’t know how to control it.

Lysandra took a slow step forward. "Who taught you?"

Daniel let out a humourless laugh. "No one."

She stared at him.

"You don’t know how to use Dirhal," she whispered.

"I don’t use Dirhal."

Her breath hitched. "Dirhem can’t be used. It’s raw. It’s unstable."

He tilted his head. "Tell that to mine."

Her skin went cold.

"Did you ever go to an enchanted mage?"

"Nope. Too expensive."

Lysandra exhaled sharply. "But you get paid in six figures."

Daniel's smirk turned cold. "I don't keep the money."

Something in her chest tightened. "Then where does it go?"

He rolled his shoulders. "Profaci does."

She had nothing to say to that.

Because what could she say?

The man before her – this trained killer, this monster who had hunted her down without hesitation – didn't even own himself.

They reached her chamber.

Lysandra hesitated at the threshold of her chamber, fingers curled lightly around the fabric of her dress.

Daniel watched her, waiting. Not pressing, not demanding-just watching. And somehow, that was worse.

She exhaled slowly. "Meet me before the blessing ceremony."

He arched a brow. "Why?"

"Because," she said, voice softer now, "I'll have some answers for you."

Something flickered in his expression. Amusement? Curiosity? Or something darker?

"You think I have questions?"

"I think," she murmured, stepping back into her room, "you don't even know what they are yet."

“Who?”

“Dirhem and Dirhal.”

She closed the door before he could respond.

Daniel carried her all the way to her bed before setting her down.

“We will look into that later” His expression didn't shift. "Tonight. Sleep."

She opened her mouth-to argue, maybe-but something in his voice warned against it.

Instead, “Good Night Vale.”

“Good Night Princess.”

He shut the door behind him, unbuttoning his shirt with sharp, practiced movements. The illusionary magic wavered as he dragged a damp cloth over his face,

Revealing the truth beneath.

The mirror rippled.

Not in a trick of the candlelight. Not in exhaustion.

It moved.

For a moment, the reflection staring back at him wasn't his own.

It was the king's.

Not just similar – identical. A gaze that didn't belong to him. A face that had no right to be his.

The Dirhem inside him flinched, curling away as if refusing to acknowledge what he saw.

"This can't be," he muttered, breathing unevenly. "I can't be him."

The reflection smiled.

He stared at himself in the mirror, gripping the edges of the washbasin.

The magic broke.

Not all at once. Not cleanly. But in pieces, flickering at the edges of his face like dying embers.

Daniel had seen himself a thousand times before.
The illusionary mask. The perfect, unblemished skin. The lie.

But this? This was the truth.

The right side of his face was ruined.

Not a scar. Not a single mark of battle to be worn with pride. But devastation.

Burnt flesh, blackened and uneven, twisting across his cheek and jaw. A crater where his right eye should have been, its hollow darkness staring back at him. Skin that had melted once, pulled tight, set in a way that no healer, no magic, could ever undo.

He exhaled slowly, gripping the washbasin harder, watching his breath shudder against the mirror's surface.

He had spent years hiding this.

Years pretending this wasn't who he was.
But standing here, alone in the silence, the palace watching, the past creeping in –
It was unbearable.

His Dirhem stirred, flickering against the scars, as if trying to soothe something that could never be soothed.

But Lysandra had seen him tonight.

She had seen him, touched him, studied him, smiled at him.

She had wanted him.

And she had no idea what he really was.

His fingers curled against the basin, nails biting into porcelain, chest rising too fast, too tight.

He wasn't supposed to exist.
Not like this. Not as this. Not as a mistake carved into flesh and fate.

And yet, here he was.

And deep down?

The most terrifying part?

Some part of him knew.
Some part of him had always known.
Some part of him had always feared this truth.

He wasn't just Daniel Valentino Smith.

He was something worse.

"This can't be," he muttered again, pushing the thought away once again. "I can't be him."

But deep down-what if he was?